


Chasing Shadows

by Ayita35730



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Major Character Injury, Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5276249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayita35730/pseuds/Ayita35730
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What would your good do if evil didn’t exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aesthetically](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesthetically/gifts).



> Starts directly after "Mommy's Little Monster"

  
****

“Cobblepot?” Jim whispers cautiously as he pushes open the unlocked door to Gertrud Kapelput’s apartment, gripping his gun with white knuckles. His heart beats like a drum inside his chest, Jim half anticipating someone to jump out of the darkness and finish him off. It’s really unlikely, the lights are all off and the whole house seems to be abandoned, probably has been since Gertrud was kidnapped, but one would be a fool not to expect the unexpected in Gotham. Jim keeps his gun steady in front of him as he moves through the doorway and into the apartment, listening for anyone else, searching for anything out of place. Jim has some vague memory of the layout this of this place from his single visit here looking for Oswald, so he’s pretty confident he isn’t going to fall on his face. He never did find Oswald that day, instead being ushered in for lunch by the man’s strange but kindhearted mother. It seems rather eerie and depressing now, the house much too silent without her incessant mumbling.

_“He killed my mother, Jim.”_

__

Jim squeezes his eyes shut, trying to repel the thousands of images dancing across his eyes. Oswald’s desperate sobs, Theo’s venomous orders creeping like poison into his mind. His heart stuttering as he stares into Oswald’s eyes and tries not to see how _hopeless_ the other man seems, how those green eyes brim with tears and misery, and no matter how hard he tries, Jim cannot see a ruthless mobster. He sees a kid who just lost his mother, and in those trembling hands and quivering voice he doesn’t see The Penguin, he sees _Oswald_. Perhaps, for the very first time.

It was the first time he’d ever called him by his name, and maybe it goes deeper than Jim would like to think. With Harvey, he could blow it off, say it was simply a tactic to throw the mobster off balance, but in truth, that moment, looking at Cobblepot, whose anguish was written upon every inch of his skin, for the first time since that day on the dock, Jim saw humanity, vulnerability. Before that he had never seen anything but The Penguin persona, all faux weakness and polite smiles, nothing to hint at any real emotions under the surface. He’d seen anger, sure, but heartbreak? That would be giving too much power to the person he shared it with.  That’s how Jim knew, looking him in the eye, being overwhelmed with the other man’s all consuming grief just by witnessing it, that he wasn’t having a standoff with Penguin, Jim was having his first real conversation with Oswald, trying like hell to keep him from self destructing.

“Oswald?” He calls a little louder this time, nerves causing his voice to shake, betraying the worry he is trying to deny.  God, he’s crossing so many lines, professionally and morally.  He knows this is where Oswald would come for safety, that is if the man is still alive, but why is Jim looking? He isn’t here to arrest Oswald, though by orders and the law he should be, and he is actually _breaking_ the law by protecting the man so **_why is he_ _?_**

_Because you know that he’s going to go after Galavan if he can, and if he does he’ll **die**._

The image of Oswald, lying somewhere in the dark streets of Gotham, a bullet sunk into that extraordinary brain, emerald eyes glazed over as they stare blankly into nothing appears unbidden into Jim’s mind and it takes everything he has not to puke.

_“One of us is going to die tonight, I’ve made my peace with that.”_

__

“Oswald! Come on Cobblepot, I’m not here to take you in, I swear.” Jim frantically assures the seemingly empty room, his tone practically desperate by this point, and, _**shit**_ , why was this his life.  “I’m here to help.” He says, his voice completely sincere because hell if it isn’t the truest thing he’s said in a long time. The entire ride over he’d been convincing himself it was his job to ensure a suspect's safety until trial, but somewhere between the car and the front door a flip was switched and now his only thought is making sure that Oswald survives the night.

There’s a beat of silence and Jim begins to doubt himself again; pictures of Oswald lying motionless in the morgue, his silver tongue silenced forever, a brief, impersonal file on a suspect killed in the midst of a crime, and a lonely tombstone in a forgotten Gotham cemetery paint themselves in blood on the rapidly growing canvas of his paranoid imagination. Just as his breathing starts rising to dangerous speeds something moves in the shadows, and Jim catches sight of glistening green eyes, the only thing distinguishable of Oswald in the darkness that surrounds them. The mobster eyes Jim for a moment, calculating as always, before sighing. “I truly doubt the sincerity of that statement Jim, but I don’t wish to hide nevertheless.”

Oswald moves forward and flicks a switch, throwing the room into light. Jim flinches when he takes in Oswald’s appearance, the man’s usually nearly pressed suit caked in multiple layers of blood and gore, and Jim gets a sick burst of relief knowing that not all of that blood is Oswald’s.

_No, Jim, it’s the blood of police officers he murdered last night._ So _preferable._

Jim swallows at that, trying to figure out how to tell his own inner voice to shut the fuck up because he does not need this moral duty back and forth shit tonight, when Oswald’s voice pulls him back to reality.

“Well, Detective, I’m not sure what you could possibly want from me, but I can assure you I’m in no position to be giving out favors currently.” Oswald mutters, attempting to sound composed, but at the end of his sentence his voice cracks severally, and his arm rises to quickly cradle his chest. Concern floods Jim’s thoughts instantly, and he wonders if in the midst of the many battles Oswald got himself into tonight he landed himself with broken ribs.

“Do you really believe I would come to you for a favor now? I told you, I’m here to help you.” Jim says, mildly irritated and confused. He  suddenly notices that at some unknown point he put up his gun and now is standing nearer to Oswald, in sight of the mound of blankets he must have been sleeping in a few moments ago. Said man glares at Jim suspiciously, but the edge is dulled by the deep bags under his eyes and red splattering his pale face, making it appear even more ghastly than usual.

“I have no idea what you do or do not intend, Jim, and to be completely honest, I’m not in the mood to try and pick apart your thoughts. Whatever it is, I wish you would kindly let me know, because I am quite……. tired.” Oswald whispers, bringing one hand up to rub his face as he leans back, letting the wall take the brunt of his admittedly nonexistent weight. Jim takes another step towards him, eyes cataloguing the numerous cuts and bruises littering the other man’s paperwhite skin, and instead of demanding an explanation for each and every one like he has the very strange desire to do, he says the first thing that comes to his mind, like a fucking moron.

“I know you’re going to try and kill Galavan again, Oswald, and you can’t.” Jim blurts, feeling like he just poked a wild animal. Surely enough, Oswald jerks up from the wall, exhaustion wiped from his features, angry eyes glinting with murder and betrayal. Jim quickly raises his hands in surrender and steps back before Oswald can attempt to deck him. “No, Oswald! Not like that! I know what he is. He deserves whatever death you see fit, and probably worse considering what we’re digging up on him. But your fingerprints are still all over his crimes, and until Harvey and I can get them wiped away, you need to lay low. If you try to go out there and kill him, it will be you who dies.”

Oswald blinks at him, shocked, and truthfully Jim is still somewhat in shock as well, and he’s positive Harvey is still staring into his coffee and mumbling about Jim getting abducted by aliens. Helping Penguin like this goes against everything he stands for, everything he’s fought for since the moment he stepped foot in Gotham, but when Harvey asked him about it he didn’t even think twice. He doesn’t want Oswald going down for _anything_ that bastard has done, much less anything he had done in desperation to get his mother back. It _shouldn’t matter_ to him like this, because Oswald is still a murderer and that won’t change because Jim erases a few tally marks from his score. Yet, Jim is beginning to realize the idea of Oswald going down at all makes his stomach turn and his nerves do some uncomfortable twitching, a concept which is utterly ridiculous.

“Why do you suddenly care so much, Detective?” Oswald says warily, bitterness tinging his tone. Isn’t that just like Penguin, practically reading Jim’s mind despite the fact he can barely stand. Jim bites his lip, looking for an answer himself, trying to avoid Oswald’s piercing gaze.

“I just don’t want you dead, Penguin, don’t read too much into it.” He lies, and obviously too, if Oswald’s expression is anything to go by. The other man opens his mouth to say something, likely to point out the many flaws in Jim’s pathetic reasoning, but instead lurches forward, his expression contorting into one of pain. Jim rushes forward without another thought, barely catching Oswald before he falls to the ground. His hand brushes over Oswald’s and all Jim can feel is ice.

_Something is wrong._

__

Jim gently pulls back from Cobblepot a moment to look him over in detail, trying to conceal the worry confusing him more by the second. He glances over Oswald’s face, which is much paler than it should be, ugly bruises and dried blood speckling his usually clean features, unfocused eyes roaming the room, seemingly now indifferent to the detective’s presence. Jim lets his gaze drift down, and that’s how he sees Oswald’s shoulder, glistening in the moonlight, shining with fresh blood.

“Oswald!! Penguin, what the hell, you haven’t got one of your doctor’s to patch you up yet?! It’s been hours, why didn’t you say anything!?! How are you even alive?!?!” Jim sputters, ripping off his own jacket and pressing it to Oswald’s shoulder, one hand fumbling for his phone.

“It isn’t as if I have an overabundance of skilled medical personnel I trust at the moment, James.  I just wanted to be at my mother’s, I don’t want to _fight_ anymore. My mother, the only person who ever truly cared for me is dead, and it is _my fault_. I’m not quite sure why it concerns you but I’ll figure something out, I always do. Just leave me alone Jim, go to your lovely Dr. Lee and leave me to my own devices, and do try not to get yourself killed on the way home” Oswald says, his voice quiet and shaky and… defeated.

**  
**By all means this is the moment Jim should leave. He’s already disregarded his legal duties, and leaving a murderer to bleed out due to his own paranoia shouldn't even be a bleep on his moral record. Yet, somehow his fingers are rapidly dialing Harvey’s number, and he finds himself praying that he won’t be too late.

 


End file.
